


in the skull

by burnells



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: (but that's typical o'brien behaviour), M/M, O'Brien Has Feelings And Cannot Cope With Them: The Fanfiction, Slight Voyeurism, This isn't a happy fic, honestly the obrinston in this is pretty unhealthy, i'm sorry for contributing to the angst-fest that is the 1984 ao3 tag, implied eventual mcd, it's ok. they love each other in another life :(, mostly because o'brien's so fucked up, o'brien pov, rabia i'm so sorry, slight sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnells/pseuds/burnells
Summary: five times o'brien knew winston + one time winston knew o'brien.
Relationships: O'Brien/Winston Smith (1984)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	in the skull

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabdizzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabdizzle/gifts).



> this is a gift from the 1984 secret santa, to rabia! (i'm so sorry in advance for this absolute gARbage)
> 
> can't believe it's 3am on christmas day and i just spent the last 5 hours writing this so i could get the deadline. i brought this upon myself by organising the damn thing. the point i'm trying to make with this convoluted complaint is that i'm tired and too lazy to go thru and check for grammar mistakes. sorry in advance to anyone who knows how semicolons are used. i know you hate me.
> 
> anyway, buckle your seatbelts and get ready for some hardcore obrinston! hope you enjoy suffering :)

** 1 **

“I trust this won’t be too difficult a task for you, Comrade.”

O’Brien looked cautiously down at the documents in his hand, readjusting his glasses a little in order to view them properly. He’d never been given orders like this before from the party- his talent lay primarily in torturing thoughtcriminals, after all- but he was certain he could do the job to the best of his ability, especially if it was in order to help Big Brother.

“Winston Smith,” he read aloud, skimming the page briefly. “Thirty-two years old. Works in Minitrue, on editing past newspapers.” That lined up, O’Brien thought to himself: he could swear he had seen the man’s face in the building before, even if, soon enough, he wouldn’t be able to swear he’d known a man like him at all. That was the beauty of the Party, however: it could create and destroy humans at the touch of a button, as if they had never existed, to completely reach their true potential and power.

And O’Brien? Well, he was at their right hand.

Without a trace of human emotion, O’Brien set down the documents. “If it is for the benefit of the Party,” he said, looking down at the man sat at the desk through his glasses, “I should have this done in no time at all.”

The other man nodded and, shortly after, slowly brought his arms above his head in a cross-like motion. “Long live Big Brother,” he spoke, as if he were a robot.

O’Brien let out a confident smile and copied his motion. Finally, he had a chance to prove himself to Big Brother; finally, he could show the Party what he was made of. He would be the greatest ally to the Party. He would destroy Winston from the heart; he would build Winston up, and he would destroy him again, just because he could, and he would never again know a life outside of the Party. He would save Winston, he thought. He would make him perfect.

“Praise be to INGSOC,” he replied swiftly.

** 2 **

It was safe to say that O’Brien’s plans hadn’t gone exactly the way he’d wanted them to.

Of course, spying on the thoughtcriminal had been easy, and giving the monthly progress reports on how Winston was doing was an easy feat. Despite this, however, there was one crucial variable O’Brien hadn’t accounted for.

Winston was overwhelmingly boring.

It wasn’t as if O’Brien had expected to look over the case of a real traitor (although he wouldn’t have been against that, considering the amusement that those kinds of criminals had previously brought him in the Ministry of Love), but to have to watch over someone whose life was as uneventful as Winston Smith’s was another level entirely. To elaborate, the man never went out of his comfort zone, or even acted on any impulses of thoughtcrime that O’Brien would observe him having. The highlight of his month would be when Winston was shamed publicly for messing up the aerobics, or when O’Brien would see him accidentally trip over on the steps up to Victory Mansions and sit there for a solid minute trying to recuperate. 

O’Brien looked down at his desk wearily and took a sip of Victory Gin. To have to deal with a few months of that would have been fine, honestly, but O’Brien could never have guessed that, after seven years of effort, he’d still be working on the same case. Although he loved Big Brother, it was difficult not to ask himself why it was taking so long just to rehabilitate a single thoughtcriminal.

O’Brien’s eyebrows furrowed as he gazed at the live video of Winston before him. Worse yet, it was becoming increasingly more difficult for O’Brien to pretend that Winston wasn’t having an impact on him. 

He had heard from previous Party members that thoughtcrime was contagious, and although he knew full well that the Party was doing what was best for himself and the Party, he found it hard to suppress the occasional intrusive and unjust thoughts of worry or even care that he had for the criminal. 

On the screen in front of him, O’Brien watched, perhaps more drawn to the sight than he should have been, as Winston gently removed his overalls, then his shoes, and eventually his shirt. Even now, O’Brien thought to himself almost angrily, the man seemed to be trying to infect him with another strong emotion. Even now, after seven years, he was still the despicable criminal that he had been before.

O’Brien shut down the computer with the cameras on. It was no issue to him, anyway. No matter how much Winston tried to get in the way of his devotion to the Party, he couldn’t destroy O’Brien’s devotion to the Party. 

He couldn’t, could he? 

No, he couldn’t.

And even if he could, O’Brien thought, ignoring the slight reddening of his own face as best as he could, he refused to let him.

** 3 **

When O’Brien found out that Winston had begun an illicit affair with a Party member, his reactions were both overwhelmingly positive and negative. 

Positive, because Winston had begun an _illicit_ affair with a Party member.

Negative, because Winston had begun an illicit _affair_ with a Party member.

This was what O’Brien had been waiting for for seven years- a genuine political act against the Party, a spark of rebellion, an actual retaliation to INGSOC and all its beliefs performed by Winston himself, and yet he still often felt an aching hole of dissatisfaction within himself. Even despite his own dedication to the Party, the idea of him looking after Winston for years upon years merely for Winston to choose a worthless Anti-Sex woman over him gave him a feeling of betrayal and even, though he was lowed to admit it, a slight surge of jealousy.

O’Brien re-adjusted his glasses, head resting on his palm as his computer monitor crackled in front of him. He was watching the cameras again. As Winston stroked Julia tenderly, hand caressing her cheek as if she had any meaning to him, O’Brien heard his voice crackle over the speaker.

“O’Brien has invited us to see him tomorrow,” he said, happiness evident in the tone of his voice.

That was good, at least, thought O’Brien. At least he knew who he belonged to.

“O’Brien?” Julia queried in response. “What for?”

“He spoke to me in the corridors earlier,” said Winston, seeming to almost gush at the idea of O’Brien taking the time to speak to him. “I think he’s on our side, Julia. I think he can save us.”

O’Brien glowed a little from the other side of the telescreen. Of course Winston loved him. It was foolish of him to think that he would not be completely taken with someone like O’Brien, especially considering how hard he was working to save him. Well, O’Brien thought to himself, looking almost proudly at the screen, it wouldn’t be long until he would be able to really save Winston.

“Well, if you really think so, darling,” the woman next to Winston said, seeming bored with the conversation. O’Brien flinched slightly at the petname, although he couldn’t quite grasp why. “Enough about that for now, though. You know why we’re here.”

O’Brien continued watching as Winston draped his hand over Julia’s shoulder, slowly covering his body with her own. He felt a pang of envy as Winston looked lovingly into her eyes, and his envy only seemed to grow with what came after. Every touch, every act, every breath given by Winston on the screen made O’Brien’s feelings grow more restless, his anger towards Winston more intense, and his desire to save Winston and perhaps himself from the thoughtcrime growing inside of them both even more deep.

For the next twenty minutes, O’Brien found himself unable to look away.

** 4 **

At long last, Winston was in his company.

O’Brien knew it hadn’t been easy to get him in this position. For starters, Winston had arrived at O’Brien’s apartment with his damned Anti-Sex League “girlfriend” (named Julia), which was already a problem considering O’Brien’s own desire to speak to Winston in private. Luckily, after giving Winston “Goldstein’s Book” and making him swear oaths of allegiance to “The Brotherhood” (which O’Brien knew very well didn’t exist in the confines of the Party), he was able to convince her to leave early, giving him a chance to speak alone with the very man who had consumed the last seven years of his life.

The door shut behind them both as Julia left the apartment, and O’Brien felt a rush run through him as his eyes locked with Winston’s. The silence between them was thick, and yet not too uncomfortable. It reminded O’Brien of years gone by, where he would spend his nights idly watching Winston from afar, whispering subliminal messages to him through the telescreen in anticipation that, one day, he would finally be able to help him in the way he intended.

Thoughtfully, O’Brien moved closer to Winston, taking the criminal by the shoulder. His first capture was so close that he could almost taste it, and yet he somehow felt a bitter sense of longing for more tame times, times in which he could watch Winston more simply, in which he could insist Winston was his without any argument in his head to suggest that he was not.

O’Brien closed his eyes, leaning in closer to Winston. Perhaps Winston had infected him slightly with his thoughtcrime, but it didn’t matter. Soon he’d be gone, after all. Sooner, he’d know he belonged to O’Brien, and Big Brother, and INGSOC, and nobody else.

“We shall meet again, Winston,” he said definitively, cupping Winston’s face with his hand.

Winston looked up, not hesitating at all at O’Brien’s contact. Without missing a beat, he responded. “In the place with no darkness?”

O’Brien smiled proudly. Yes, Winston was his.

“In the place with no darkness.”

** 5 **

O’Brien already knew that this time would come, so he couldn’t understand why he felt opposed to it.

From the very beginning of his mission, his intention was to ensure Winston became completely devoid of thoughtcrime. To allow various instances of thoughtcrime to build up only to destroy them entirely, to build up a house of cards and then destroy it just because you can, was the most efficient way to destroy thoughtcriminals.

The problem was that O’Brien had done all of that, and he still couldn’t find it in himself to be satisfied. As he walked down the immaculate steps of the Ministry of Love, he couldn’t help a sense of doubt from creeping into his mind about what he was truly doing. For seven years, O’Brien had been helping Winston; he had been watching over him, like a Guardian Angel, like a protector, like a God; yet he was expected to get rid of all of that, to floor his emotion entirely, merely because the Party deemed it fit to vaporise him? O’Brien didn’t understand. O’Brien couldn’t understand.

O’Brien stopped his train of thought for a second. This was it, he thought to himself. This was the very thoughtcrime he’d been warned about. His feelings towards Winston, his care, his passion, his desire, they were all just a part of Winston’s elaborate scheme to turn him away from the party. O’Brien was there to make Winston perfect, to absolve him of all of these issues, to keep him inches away from death in order to make him sane again, wasn’t he? It was his job to make things right, to shield him from his own mind and to keep him the way the Party wanted him, wasn’t it?

And yet, when he walked through the big double doors of the Ministry’s hall, when he saw Winston cowering in the corner of the cell, wrecked, crying, lost, he found himself faltering. He had worked tirelessly for seven years to make the Party happy, all for what? For the one man whom he had felt the most passion, the most fury, the most sadness towards just to die? 

But no, O’Brien thought to himself, heart weighing heavily as he walked towards the shaking man in the cell, this had to be done. There was no way around it. O’Brien needed to do this for the Party and, he thought to himself solemnly, for Winston, too.

“O’Brien!” Winston shouted hoarsely, voice breaking in anguish. “They got you too!”

With a sad smile, O’Brien looked deep into Winston’s eyes. There was only one thing left for him to do, only one path left that he could follow. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he responded.

“They got me a long time ago.”

** +1 **

“I think we are alike, O’Brien.”

O’Brien looked up from the documents in his hand, readjusting his glasses a little in order to view Winston properly. It was several months into Winston’s torture, and the task of destroying the very thing he tried so hard to create was daunting, to say the least, but even now he was certain he could do the job to the best of his ability, especially if it was in order to help Big Brother.

Raising his eyebrows, O’Brien returned the remark with a question. “How come?”

Winston was fatigued. The man was almost completely broken; that much was obvious to O’Brien; and yet he seemed completely serene, almost content, with his current state. With only a few seconds of quiet hesitation beforehand, he spoke once more. “They took me in for wanting more freedom,” he croaked. “They took my neighbour in for talking in his sleep.”

O’Brien waited for him to speak again. When he didn’t, he took it upon himself to. “And what does that have to do with me, Winston?”

“Well, O’Brien,” he said, resting his head on the back of his chair gently, “I know you don’t hate me.”

At this, O’Brien’s attention was piqued. Before he could formulate a cold and scathing remark, however, Winston spoke again, words a little slurred. “I know you’re always here because you want to see how I’m doing, and how often you ask the people and doctors for updates, and I know the way you look after me when you think I’m asleep.” He turned his head slightly to face O’Brien. “Somebody who hated me wouldn’t do that,” he finished.

O’Brien was slightly floored by Winston’s sudden attack on his torture mechanisms. “Winston,” he said, eyebrows furrowing, “I am here to make you perfect for Big Brother and the Party. I have as much of an emotional connection with you as I do any thoughtcriminal.”

Winston smiled at him, his dead eyes scrunching up a little. “But don’t you see, O’Brien?” he said, his cracking voice growing increasingly upset. “To want to make me perfect for the Party… that means you at least care about me to some extent.”

There was no way Winston was right. There was no way O’Brien felt anything towards Winston. Everything he experienced was just thoughtcrime, wasn’t it? Everything Winston had made him feel would go, wouldn’t it? And yet, here he remained, flooded with the exact same feelings that he had been whilst Winston was a criminal, except now he was too far gone to exert anything on O’Brien whatsoever. 

No evidence could make O’Brien admit it to himself. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Please, Big Brother, don’t let it be true.

“You see?” Winston said, watching a painful realisation dawn on O’Brien’s face. 

O’Brien stood up from his chair, the cool and composed façade finally seeming to crack. “So?” he retorted, voice slightly raised as he stood above Winston. “Even if I do take care on my assignments from the Party, what does it matter to you, Winston? What are you saying?”

Winston looked up, reaction time much slower than O’Brien’s due to his general dissociative state. With a pained expression, he finally spoke again. “You already know, don’t you? You know who’s next in line after they’re done with me, O’Brien.”

An uncontrollable feeling surged through O’Brien at Winston’s last sentence. Within seconds, he had his taser pushing directly up against Winston, sparks flying from the tip as Winston’s already weak body collapsed above it. After a good ten seconds, O’Brien finally pulled the electronic away, watching as Winston’s head fell flat against the back of the chair. 

Winston wouldn’t remember this, O’Brien thought to himself, hands shaking as he observed the reckless feat his own hellish feelings had caused him to do. That damned Winston, it was all his fault. And yet, even in the wake of his own terror, he still couldn’t find it within himself to hate the man who had reduced him to this state. 

Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes and walked back to his seat. Sitting back, he watched the unconscious Winston, weakly breathing in the seat opposite.

He relished the moment of togetherness. After all, if Winston was right, soon enough he himself wouldn’t be able to remember it, either.


End file.
